March – 3,390 BCE
Earth: Crash site
Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili
Mikhail
The snap of a twig…
Mikhail’s head shot up, his hand automatically reaching for the reassuring bulge of the pulse rifle strapped to his hip. A greeting called through the air. Immanu. Ninsianna’s father.
Their eyes met. Either the shaman knew about the attack, or he'd picked up on the tension in the camp. Immanu waited for Mikhail to acknowledge his presence before coming closer, not the actions of an assailant. Mikhail nodded and moved his hand back to his thigh, close enough that he could pull his weapon.
“Papa!" Ninsianna ran up and sank her face into her father's chest.
Mikhail raised one eyebrow at the embrace. It was a complex ritual, the seeking of physical comfort, but he hadn't observed the phenomenon in enough settings to discern the rules. The gesture didn't appear to be an action one allowed one's enemies. When he'd allowed Ninsianna to hug him, he'd been painfully aware of just how vulnerable he was to a knife in the ribs. He allowed it because …
Because he'd been as rattled by the incident as she was. If Ninsianna wanted him dead, she would have left him to die in the aftermath of the crash. He didn't know who to trust, but he trusted her. Her father could give him answers. Answers which could only be imperfectly communicated given the language barrier.
“Yanlış çocuk nedir?" Immanu gave Mikhail a look which communicated ‘what did you do to upset my daughter?’
“Jamin,” Ninsianna cried. “Jamin eighteen Halifians with iki gece önce kampa came! They Mikhail yakalamaya çalıştım or kill him. Which not sure...”
Mikhail fingered his firestick and twitched his wings. He couldn't fault her for the actions of her jilted lover, but he was still perturbed. The last time he was here, Immanu had claimed their chief had ordered his son to stand down. Middle-of-the-night raids were not something that just ‘happened’ without somebody in authority giving an order. Either Immanu had lied, or he was mistaken about the intentions of their village chief. Either that, or the chief faced a coup d’état from his son. Neither possibility bode well for his continued relationship with these people.
“Ben gitmeden önce this morning Jamin saw." Immanu's facial features conveyed surprise. “This hiç bahsedilmemesi village make."
Mikhail strained to translate the conversation. Immanu had seen Jamin this morning. Something about the village. Either the shaman was a master of deception, or the news came as a surprise.
“He cesaret edemezdim!” Ninsianna gave an indignant hiccough. “His father him here gelip yasakladı said."
Something the chief had said to his son? Mikhail scrutinized their body language, trying to add context to what few words he understood. Ninsianna had been silent since the incident. Not only had she stopped speaking to him, but she'd ceased her perpetual conversation with the deity she viewed more as an invisible friend than someone she worshipped.
The last thing he recalled was getting a spear in his thigh, and then looking down from the roof of his ship to see bodies littering the ground. The fact he'd killed his attackers didn't surprise him. He was a soldier. That was what soldiers did. It was the fact he'd killed all of their attackers, except for Jamin, and he couldn't remember it!
No. That wasn’t true. He recalled Ninsianna's body thrown across her lover's, begging for his life, and how much trouble he’d had stopping himself from killing her as well. That's what had him rattled. Whatever training he'd instinctively drawn upon, he'd only marginally been in control of it. That was why he wasn't too anxious to muddle his way through the language barrier and ask what had happened. If she knew he hadn't been in control it, might terrify her enough to go running right back to the man who'd attacked them for protection. Protection from him...
His mind was pulled back by Immanu asking a question. He'd lost focus on their conversation. He couldn't afford to lose focus. With the added disadvantage of a language barrier, he couldn't allow a single detail to escape his notice.
“Jamin told Ninsianna that the men who came with him were mercenaries,” Immanu said in his archaic version of Mikhail’s language. “Halifians. A rival tribe. He hired them to save her from you.”
Mikhail's wings betrayed his distrust. He hid his emotions, forcing his face to be impassive, and his wings to return to their normal, guarded position. Until he figured out who was friend or foe, he couldn't afford to betray the direction of his thoughts.
“Oh Papa!” Ninsianna cried out. “Mikhail öldürdüler. This böyle olmaz our people for sorun neden olur?
Immanu harrumphed and spoke in his own language, then translated so Mikhail could understand.
“I told her the only thing she needs saving from is an idiot of a father who tried to coerce her to marry that jackal!”
Immanu looked towards the ship. The wind had shifted, bringing the scent of death. The bodies were gone, but flies feasted on the dried Halifian blood and remnants of entrails baking in the sun.
“I need to discuss this with the Chief,” Immanu said. “Jamin didn't breathe a word of this to anyone. Chief Kiyan will be outraged that his own son conspired with our enemies.”
“Is it possible that your Chief authorized this attack behind your back?” Mikhail asked. “Mercenaries are not cheap.”
Immanu turned the idea over in his mind, and then dismissed it.
“I'm not foolish enough to blindly trust our leader,” Immanu said. “But I'm a pretty good judge of character. The Chief is not hotheaded like his son. He is intrigued by the military advantage to be gained by allying with your people."
Immanu pointed to the pulse rifle strapped to Mikhail’s hip. Ninsianna hovered in the background, wringing her hands as she strained to understand her father's words. She asked a question, to translate, no doubt.
“Ben yalniz, him I need to speak,” Immanu said to Ninsianna.
To Mikhail’s surprise, she didn't argue but grabbed her satchel and headed off into a field where she’d had success digging wild onions. He couldn't understand her reply, but ‘supper’ had been one of the first words she'd taught him. Immanu waited until his daughter was out of earshot before continuing their conversation.
“Even though the men who attacked you're not of our tribe,” Immanu said. “As shaman, it's my duty to perform the death rituals. You must take me to them so their spirits don't linger to harm to the living.”
“They are up there." Mikhail pointed to a rise off in the distance. He scrutinized the shaman’s demeanor. Was it his own dead he buried? Allies? Or should he take Immanu’s words at face value?
“First I must gather some things." Immanu examined the ground around the camp until he found a plant Ninsianna called qat; a mild stimulant she'd been giving him to help rebuild his strength. “Mikhail … could you please fill a container with water?”
Mikhail went into his ship to fetch a bucket and filled it from the stream. Immanu studied it, fascinated by its design. It was only plastic. But it was technology his people had never seen. He was just as interested when Mikhail retrieved a small steel toolbox to carry an ember from the fire. Immanu asked him to line the box with dried moss.
Mikhail understood what Immanu was doing. This was not just a ritual for the dead, but an opportunity to work together and put him at ease. He was not sure how he knew this was what Immanu was up to, but it felt reassuring. As though the shaman shared the same unspoken ‘rules’ that his species used.
An image of a shapeless glob popped into his mind, a disembodied feeling of frustration at trying to communicate with the thing Mikhail knew was sentient … and a hell of a lot smarter than he was. He pulled out a name. Dardda’il. The image was lost before he could get more. Dardda’il. Dardda’il. Dardda’il. Shapeless smart globs he'd trouble communicating with because they didn't share the same underlying rules of social behavior. It was another fragment of his past to cling to even as his gut told him that these Dardda’il were not a signi
ficant part of his life.
Immanu looked at the enormous pile of sticks Ninsianna had been gathering all morning. ‘Make busy’ work to ease the silence which normally would have been filled with her friendly chatter, or the conversation she'd stopped having with her invisible goddess friend.
“Mikhail,” Immanu asked, “we need firewood for the ceremony. Could you please carry some with us to the gravesite?”
Mikhail did as asked, his face arranged in an impassive mask. His instincts told him to trust Ninsianna’s father. Something about him was familiar … and not just the eerie tawny-beige eyes Immanu had bequeathed to his daughter. But the middle-of-the-night raid had rattled him. He hadn't simply crash-landed in unknown territory, but into territory which was hostile to his presence. He needed to be careful.
“We are ready,” Immanu said. “Show me where you put the bodies.”
“Where is Ninsianna?” Mikhail stiffened when he realized she'd moved out of his line of sight.
It had been little more than two weeks since he'd woken up with no memory of his past, but she was the only constant he had. As much as he hated being dependent upon her, he was dependent upon her. Not for physical protection … the pulse rifle would protect him however long it took to deplete the battery. Not long by the angry red light blinking on the hilt, but long enough. It was the psychological stability she provided. Someone who accepted him when even he didn't know who he was. He felt adrift in the vacuum of empty space and she was his life pod.
“Ninsianna will be fine,” Immanu said. “She doesn't like the ceremony of the dead. She will avoid us until it's over.”
Mikhail led him to a small hill he'd found far enough away from the downed ship so that the mercenary's families wouldn't need to trespass upon the perimeter to visit the graves. He couldn't remember what one was supposed to do when burying one's enemies, but from the prayers he'd been reciting as he'd become aware of the carnage beneath him, the ritual must be deeply ingrained into his subconscious. He'd dug eighteen separate graves, each one's head facing the rising sun. Cairns were piled over each grave to prevent wild animals from disturbing the bodies. He'd arranged their personal effects on top of the graves so their next of kin could identify them.
Immanu grunted approval. “The dead are honored by what you've done. But I must perform my own people’s rituals to ensure their spirits don't plague Ninsianna for her participation in their death. Will you help?”
Mikhail nodded. Death rituals were as much for the living as the dead. Soldiers who won in battle risked two things. Overwhelming guilt. Or desensitization to the fact they'd just taken another life. Neither was desirable. Strict customs requiring the victors to treat the bodies of the losers with respect helped them cope without becoming inhuman. From what he'd seen, Ninsianna’s people shared similar beliefs.
“We'll build the fire here,” Immanu said. They piled the fire wood and placed the ember into its midst, blowing until flames licked the pile with hungry tongues. Mikhail stared into the fire, his eyes avoiding the gravesites. Immanu pulled items from his satchel and arranged them upon the points of the compass.
“To guide the dead into the dream world,” Immanu said. “You must enter the earth yourself." He unwrapped a cloth loaded with wet, ochre-laden mud dug out of the stream.
Unwrapping the shawl Ubaid men used in place of a shirt so that it wouldn't get muddy, Immanu used the mud to paint symbols onto his own body. As he did, he sang a chanting song in a low, frog-like bass voice similar to one of the songs Ninsianna sang when she performed the ritual he thought of as 'laying on of hands' to massage his broken wing. Immanu handed Mikhail the packet of mud and gestured for him to do the same.
“I'm not familiar with this ritual,” Mikhail said. “You will need to show me.”
“Like this." Immanu scooped a chunk of the pasty yellow ochre with his index and middle finger. “Allow me.”
Mikhail stiffened as Immanu painted arrows and other symbols upon his face, chest and arms. The mud was cool and gritty, but no more uncomfortable than the sweat which had accumulated from carrying wood up to the gravesite. Mikhail watched as the shaman painted asterisks, diamonds, squiggles, and sheathes of grain. Immanu's finger paused on the final symbol, a winged creature he'd been painting on the unbandaged side of Mikhail’s collarbone. Mikhail glanced at the identical symbol Immanu had painted on his own chest.
The image of a winged man…
“I guess they skipped the intermediate trader.” Immanu glanced towards the graves where Mikhail had planted a single gigantic feather on each, sticking out of the rocks like a tree, telling the world who had smote these men.
Mikhail was relieved Immanu didn't prostrate himself as he'd done that first day in the ship. It had taken the better part of the afternoon to convince the shaman he was no demi-god.
“Now we must pray to the earth to accept the bodies of the dead back into her womb,” Immanu studied his face.
Mikhail hoped the shaman could not discern it was not a lack of emotion he hid beneath his impassive mask, but entirely too many emotions that would be destructive if unleashed. He felt as though he were hanging onto sanity by a single thread. Immanu gave him leaves from the qat plant to chew and ignited a bundle he'd gathered so they smoldered. The shaman circled each grave, invoking a different name of She-who-is in every direction, praying for safe passage into the dreamtime.
“Now we must offer the dead water to bring on their journey,” Immanu said, holding out the plastic container he’d had Mikhail fetch earlier. “And ask the goddess to grant them pleasant dreams. You must perform this part of the ceremony.”
“I think we have a similar tradition,” Mikhail frowned in concentration. “I have recollection of … someone … anointing the foreheads of the dead with water. Or oil.”
Eighteen graves later, Immanu took the container and scooped a handful of water himself onto each grave. “I offer safe passage and pleasant dreams on behalf of Ninsianna so their spirits will bear her no ill will.”
They sat and stared into the fire, silence stretching between them until the sun began to set. Prayers leaped into Mikhail’s mind … prayers in that third language he hadn't even been aware was a separate language until Ninsianna had asked him about it. Prayers offered on behalf of the dead to some deity he couldn't remember having ever worshipped.
The scent of cooking fish wafted from the campsite. And … onions? He definitely smelled onions. Mikhail suppressed a smile.
“Let's see what Ninsianna prepared for supper,” Immanu said. “We have paid these jackals far more respect than they deserve.”
It was too late for Immanu to hike back to the village. He reassured his daughter his wife knew he would spend the night. Over the next few hours, Immanu and Ninsianna took turns telling funny stories about their village. Stories which made the village sound inviting … not the kind of place which would launch an attack. They sang songs long past the time decent folk would have gone to bed and whispered to each other across the tight confines of the sleeping quarters, father-to-daughter stories no doubt, in the dark. A close-knit family.
The doubt which gripped Mikhail gradually loosened its hold. Death ceremonies were for the living.
Chapter 29